


Cleanse Me In Hyssop

by BugTongue



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: "Self Medication", Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Lingerie, Masturbation, Nonbinary Character, One (1) boy who needs saving from his own trauma, Other, Rape Fantasy, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 15:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BugTongue/pseuds/BugTongue
Summary: Kurapika decides to take his trauma recovery into his own hands in the best way he knows how: by himself and poorly.





	Cleanse Me In Hyssop

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a translation of "Misererer" as composed by Gregorio Allegri. Because this is miserable and what's krkr without fucked up religious themes?

Kurapika didn't drink, as a general rule. It made his reaction time slower and dredged up things he'd like to keep to himself. At first is made him happy, more likely to speak to others and even reach out for the physical contact he so often went without, but after a few drinks his mood quickly dived. And yet sometimes he wanted that.

  
Sometimes the only way to clean a wound was to drain the sickness out first.

  
So he drank. He shut the door of his apartment behind him and locked it, one plastic bag with one glass bottle inside dangled from his fist. He let out a breath that did nothing to smooth the worried crease in his brow. Self medicating was a term he preferred for this, although he knew a few people who would argue it was more like self harm. He stepped into the kitchenette to grab a small glass which he filled with two ice cubes, and took his treasures into the living room. As if putting off the task ahead he turned on the news, watching until it ran through into commercials before pulling out the bottle of rum and twisting the cap off. He poured it over the ice until they were suspended off the glass, then set the bottle aside to bring the glass to his lips.

  
After enough times of doing this he no longer choked on the first sip, but it still hurt. Kurapika didn't drink, because he didn't like alcohol or the way it burned him up from the inside, filled him with false fire and clogged his senses. But right now that's what he wanted, he wanted to get stupid, he didn't want to feel his face anymore. The first glass was gone before the news rolled back around, so that when it did he knew the exact moment the alcohol made itself known.

  
There were six murders a few cities over, allegedly they were in a gang together, but the deaths didn't suit gang violence. It was bizarre, almost artistic, and there was a calling card. Kurapika knew his eyes lit up because he could see the reflection in the glass of the television, off the glass in his hand as well as the coffee table. It couldn't be to antagonize him, just the Troupe doing what they did best, but with it so close he had to pour himself another glass to keep from running out the door and rushing to the crime scene.

  
It had been months since he killed Uvogin and Pakunoda, since he'd had Chrollo within his grasp. He could still imagine the feeling of Chrollo's face under his knuckles, the strange warmth of him beside Kurapika in the back seat. He threw the glass back despite it being too much too fast, too harsh to be drinking straight like this. The adrenaline had nowhere to go like this, and he stood up to pace around his house. From the bedroom, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, and back to his couch.

  
He wondered if they would come to kill him. He was sure now that they missed their dead members, in as normal a capacity as any other person with loved ones. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he considered whether or not he wanted the Troupe to come to him. If they wanted him dead all they had to was bring more than one person to fight, he wasn't yet strong enough for a fight where they outnumbered him. It wasn't odd to feel his pulse spike at the thought of fighting the Troupe, however it was strange to think of his enemy trying to kill him and finding that his blood rushed below the belt.

  
This wasn't the first time, the first had been a lot more confusing, but he'd thought that was a fluke. Now with his sense of balance thrown off and two glasses of rum in his system he realized perhaps he was just twisted. The things in his past had broken something in him and left him wrong in a way he couldn't address head on. His breath caught when he grabbed his own hair, imagining different hands doing it, letting go to slide down to his throat. Kurapika didn't grab tight enough to stop his breathing, just enough to hurt. The action made the ache in his gut, his heart, between his legs grow, made it morphe into a need he forced himself to pull away from.

  
He put his hands on top of his thighs and took a few shuddering breaths to calm his heartbeat. It made him sick to his stomach, he thought, although it was wound up now with arousal and loss. The tears he'd been trying to tease out were stuck behind his eyes, needing to be urged outwards and in his current situation he wasn't sure how to do that.

  
Drain the wound. It seemed he’d have to do a little more than that now, he'd have to force every bit of this out of himself like bile. He felt ill enough for the metaphor as he pressed a palm over his clothed erection, the nails of his other hand digging into his thigh. The fabric of the suit was soft to the touch but still coarser than his traditional clothing, more restricting as well. He massaged his crotch again and let out a short puff of air before undoing the clasp of his pants, sliding a hand down below the much softer, thinner undergarments. They were black and made of satin and mesh, an apology he bought himself for forcing his body into the ridiculous formalwear he had to put on every day now, and in situations like this just moving them out of the way was enough to make him shudder.

  
Kurapika's other hand crept up under his jacket to untuck his shirt enough to push underneath much less gently than he'd been below the belt. His nails scraped upwards beneath the matching camisole and over a nipple before he dragged them back down. Finally, finally he took himself in hand and stroked slowly, eyes closing as he tried to compromise between the need to address his body’s concerns and the need to experience something he hoped he never would. He fumbled his buttons open but left the tie, pulling on it roughly enough that it tightened around his throat, his dick throbbing against his palm.

  
If they came after him, if they decided to toy with him before taking his life in a fittingly awful way, how would they have him? Who would have him? He remembered again the body beside him in the car who had been warm, but cooler than him to the touch. He imagined those calm, treacherous eyes watching him as lukewarm hands pushed into his pants to feel him, and slowed his own movements to grope himself pointedly.

  
“Oh…”

  
His face flushed, the sting creeping into his scalp and down his throat as his hips stuttered off the couch, eyes threatening to roll back before he focused them on the news. Commercials. He pressed his feet flat to the floor as he stroked himself slow and tight again, his breath catching when the hand on his tie twitched.

  
What if Chrollo got ahold of him before choosing to murder him, what would he do? Kurapika swallowed painfully and whimpered from the next agonizing pump of his fist. He let go of the tie to drag a thumb over his lips, feeling the lack of sensation, numbness taking away from him the way he'd hoped for. When he shoved two fingers into his own mouth he managed to surprise his attention away from the television, eyes shutting. It felt good, overwhelmingly so, even when he took his hand off his dick to reach farther into his slacks to claw a hot line across his inner thigh, biting down on his fingers. He didn't want to be torn apart, but it would be fitting, he thought, to pay for every day he outlived them.

  
A sob caught in his throat and he pulled his fingers out away, then he clamped a hand over his mouth as he got his hand back on himself, stroking like before. Chrollo, so calm and cruel behind him, maybe, aware of how his body reacted occasionally to knowing it must be nearing the end, holding him so he couldn't cover himself. He moaned through messy fingers and rolled his hips, finally, desperate, and imagined that low, soft voice calling him good, if mockingly.

  
That's what it took to make his toes curl inside his shoes and his head drape over the top of the couch, one hand falling from his mouth to slide up shakily into his hair while the other haltingly pumped him through it. He cursed, labored breathing only growing more tense until the tears finally fell in impossibly large droplets over his face and into his hair and the collar of his shirt. He took a short breath, then another, and ground his teeth together against the miserable sound trying to claw its way out of him.

  
The sick feeling in his gut intensified, vision blurred with more than tears and exhaustion. He held his and out away from himself until he figured out where the tissues were, then forced himself to his feet and into the bathroom.

  
He had no tolerance for alcohol, was sure he'd made a mistake on the dosage, but still struggled not to throw any of it up even as he rest his cheek on the toilet seat and closed his eyes against the disorientation.

  
\---

  
Morning came with gentle rays creeping across the floor, barely reaching the dark bathroom. Kurapika had dragged a towel off the rack and wrapped up in it as he slept on the bath mat, waking up still sick to his stomach but well enough to start his day. Soon. Eventually.

  
He very determinedly kept his thoughts on the day ahead, and not the one previous. For his own sanity.


End file.
